


Patrick's Bringing the SexyBack

by megyal



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-22
Updated: 2006-08-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 04:20:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/291564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megyal/pseuds/megyal





	Patrick's Bringing the SexyBack

_Trapezius._

Peter has a fetish. It is all-consuming, taking up his time. His mind. It makes his hands tremble, and his eyes swim, and he blames it on writing too many crappy lyrics under the feeble light of his bunk.

He supposes it can't _technically_ be called a fetish. If it _was_ a fetish, he would have been aroused by this on _anyone_. As it is, there is only one person who has this effect. This overwhelming enthralment.

 _Deltoid_

They had a photoshoot.

Something about waterguns and buckets. And...water. Lots of it. It was fairly warm water, too and with quiet aplomb, Patrick had refused to remove his shirt. But Pete had still been drawn to the wet material sucking onto the smooth planes of Patrick's back. When Patrick went into the bathroom of the bus to change his clothes, Pete had stood dripping in the narrow hall and watched through the open door, watched him start to peel off his wet shirt, exposing the pale skin, and Pete had been staring, _staring_.

He did not realise that Patrick had stopped in the middle of stripping, his arms crossed over each other and wrapped around himself; gripping the hem of his shirt and hauling it up, hands at the ready to make that smooth pull up and over. Pete came back to himself with a sharp low sound, snapping his eyes from the wide band of flesh that was already exposed, to Patrick's left eye glittering at Pete over his shoulder. They were both suddenly immobilised, and Pete's reason was that he was pinned by that one eye, a question forming, then the answer realised, behind the iris. Patrick's eyebrow shifted down and he slowly lifted the shirt up and over, not moving his head, his hat going with the shirt, so that when the material finally slipped away from him, his hair was messy and damp, curling darkly slick against his scalp and neck, but oh. His _back_.

His back almost glowed at Pete.

And he was still looking over his shoulder at his transfixed audience.

Patrick turned his head away and stared down into the shower. He put out his hand to the side and closed the door softly, locking away that perfection. Pete wanted more.

 _Infraspinatus_

Pete can't help but try and keep catching glimpses. That's all he gets. Glimpses. Slivers. Flashes. When they're performing and Patrick raises his guitar, his shirt raises as well and Pete has to grip his bass even tighter. Once Patrick was goofing around in a large dressing-room back-stage, and tried an half-assed handstand; he had tumbled, laughing, over onto his side, but not before his shirt had slid all the way down to around his chest and Pete had to avert his eyes quickly, wedged in the sofa beside Andy. He wished he could put his own eyes out, just to get away from the possibility.

Away from the slivers. The flashes. The glimpses.

He looked back at Patrick now seated cross-legged on the awful green carpeting, and Patrick was chuckling at Andy's derisive mocking, biting his bottom lip, but his eyes slid over to lock with Pete's; Pete flushed, the blood roaring through his head, because the tense awareness that had been living behind Patrick's eyes since that _time_ had turned into something more speculative and Pete had never been so glad before for a stage-call.

 _Teres Minor_

Patrick knows. How could Pete have thought Patrick wouldn't get to the heart of it? He knows, easily, as if Pete's mind is displayed across the back of Patrick's eyelids. And Pete is afraid of two things. One: He will not make a move on his new knowledge. Two: He will.

 _Teres Major_

Patrick has him in the palm of his hand.

Pete had been asking Joe and Andy to just exchange hotel-room partners, just for this one night, maybe, but they had merely looked baffled, and replied this was the way they always roomed, PatrickPeter and JoeAndy, so why change it now? _Go to bed, Pete_. And Patrick had smiled, probably a little too ferally in Pete's view, and said, "Yeah, Pete. Come on."

He had been panicking a little in the bathroom, working up the bravery to go out and slip quickly into the bed, and turn off the light, quick _'Night, Patrick_ , when there was a sharp knock on the door. He had opened it to face Patrick, and basically did not hear a word Patrick said to him, because Patrick was shirtless, in his pajama bottoms. A never-before event.

Pete cleared his throat.

"What?" he croaked, anyway, and Patrick smiled a little.

"I said, my back hurts. Give me a massage?"

And without waiting for a response, because Patrick _knew_ , he went to his bed and lay face down and Pete, hooked in the groin, was reeled in by the sight of that back, waiting for him. He went over, shaking a little and straddled Patrick, but not resting down at him at all, just kneeling over him; because Patrick would just feel how hard he was and that was not good.

"That won't work," Patrick said softly, his voice a little muffled by the pillows. "You have to sit all the way down, Pete."

So he did, resting back on his heels and Patrick made no comment as his hardness pressed against the cleft Patrick's legs made; he merely sighed and made some tiny undulating motions with his whole body, a pale sleepy snake underneath Pete.

Pete rested his palms flat against Patrick's lower back, half-anticipating that once the heels of his hands touched that creamy expanse, the skin would ripple and his hands would just sink in slowly. As it was, there was no massaging, because Pete was too engrossed in running his hands dreamily over his back and memorising it. There was a smattering of freckles that he had not noticed near Patrick's shoulders, light-brown and slightly shocking against rest of the unspoiled terrain; he also had two of those adorable dimples on either side of his spine, right over his buttocks, and Pete was slightly alarmed to find that he had bent forward and was slipping his tongue along the groove of that spine, almost tasting the decadent velvet cream.

When Patrick made a sharp inhale, he pulled back, instantly apologetic, but Patrick merely said, a little faintly, "No, no. You can go on. Do...do what you want." Patrick's whole back had flushed rosily, and Pete sighed.

It was while he was running his hands along Patrick's sides and trying to kiss each freckle, wondering just how he would manage to look Patrick in the face the next day, he realised that it wasn't just his _back_ , his back was almost too much and yet it was not _enough_ , it was the whole entire skin, _all_ of it, pale and supple. He drew back again, feeling dizzy, and Patrick managed to turn underneath him, that same contemplative look in his eye and Pete felt how hard he was.

Pete did what he wanted.

Patrick did too.

 _Latissimus Dorsi_

He still starves for Patrick's back, and sometimes, when they can, Patrick has sex with him on his knees and elbows; and if they claimed that this would be the dominant position for Pete, it really isn't, not with Patrick coming up onto his knees only, his back pressed against Pete's chest, arms reaching wantonly around to hold onto the back of Pete's head as Pete gasps against his neck. And he makes sure to go back down, right before Pete comes, so all that he sees when they're shuddering and bucking, is Patrick's cool back.


End file.
